Runeterra: Alexander The Eternal

. . .

. . .

As we approached the gates of Demacia, the city's grandeur unfolded like a meticulously crafted painting. Towering white stone structures reached skyward, their surfaces gleaming under the sun, standing as vigilant sentinels over the bustling port below. Ships of every size drifted in and out, their sails billowing like banners in the constant flow of activity.

Once we disembarked, Emanuel walked with us to the gates. There, we exchanged farewells. My mother handed the king's sword to the nearest guard, who, upon recognizing it, straightened and offered a crisp salute before escorting us inside without hesitation.

Demacia thrummed with life.

The hurried steps of merchants scurrying between stalls, the sharp calls of vendors touting their goods, travelers hauling their belongings, and the laughter of children weaving through the crowd all melded into a vibrant, chaotic symphony. The rhythmic clatter of carriage wheels over cobblestone streets added a steady beat to the city's pulse, grounding the energy around us.

Most of the people wore simple clothing in shades of white and blue—practical, sturdy fabrics built for function. Yet the divide between classes was unmistakable: merchants sported finer fabrics and subtle embellishments, while soldiers moved through the throng in gleaming armor, their polished steel reflecting the sunlight with mirror-like precision.

"So, this is Demacia," I murmured to myself, my eyes scanning the crowd.

For a fleeting moment, I felt something stir—an unexpected flicker of admiration. The city pulsed with vitality, a living testament to order and strength. 'I'm truly in Runeterra.' The thought settled in my mind, carrying an odd weight.

But the emotion was fleeting. I pushed it aside.

'That doesn't matter now.'

As we moved deeper into the city, we passed a massive statue of King Jarvan. His hands rested firmly on the hilt of a sword, his pose exuding dignity and authority. The crowd that passed by seemed to revere the monument, their gazes lingering with respect, as if the stone itself commanded awe.

I allowed myself a faint smirk.

'Mine's better,' I mused. 'Lacks detail. And as for true greatness? No contest.'

The architecture pulled at my attention as we walked. Open markets sprawled across intersections, their stalls arranged with a precision that felt almost military. Vendors hawked everything from fresh produce to finely forged weapons, each adorned with the unmistakable crest of Demacia. One stall, in particular, caught my eye—a cluster of merchants selling herbs, potions, and medical supplies.

'Interesting. I'll be back later.'

We crossed a wide plaza, its surface paved with stones so expertly fitted that not even the smallest crack could be seen. Surrounding the square were buildings that stood tall and imposing, their facades simple but solid. Tall windows lined the walls, banners fluttering from their heights, each movement crisp in the breeze. There was a sense of rigid order to everything—a practicality that bordered on stark, yet felt purposeful.

As we pressed on, a strange sensation settled over me. The air grew heavier, colder—charged with something faint but tangible. My brow furrowed as I focused on the source.

'Petricite.' The thought clicked into place. The mana-absorbing material was present everywhere, subtly suppressing the flow of energy. 'That explains the silenced mana.'

Finally, we arrived at the Knight's Suite—our destination.

A guard greeted us at the entrance, his posture rigid but respectful. He offered a sharp salute before stepping aside, allowing us entry.

Inside, the space was austere but refined. The floors were smooth, dark stone, polished to a mirror-like finish. Tapestries bearing Demacia's emblem hung along the walls, their fabric heavy and rich. The air carried a faint scent of cedar and something metallic, perhaps from the armor displayed on stands along the corridor. The lighting was soft, provided by sconces that cast a warm, steady glow.

Our room was modest but comfortable. A single window allowed in a stream of natural light, illuminating a neatly made bed with crisp linens. A sturdy wooden desk sat in one corner, accompanied by a simple chair. The walls were bare, save for a single banner that bore the symbol of Demacia.

I exhaled slowly, letting the quiet envelop me. The world outside was vibrant and loud, but here, within these walls, there was peace.

'It will suffice for now.'

. . .

. . .

The Next Morning

I sat cross-legged on the bed, eyes closed, focusing on the flow of energy within. Mana coursed through me like a storm—raw, turbulent, and unyielding. It surged in waves, but something felt off. A weight pressed down, dulling the flow, like chains tightening around a restless beast.

'Petricite… it's everywhere,' I realized. The very walls seemed to drink in the mana, absorbing it before it could gather strength.

But instead of frustration, a quiet resolve settled over me.

'This will be my training.'

If I could harness mana under these conditions, channel it despite the suppression, it would mean I was growing stronger.

"I need to become stronger." I murmured, rising from the bed.

. . .

. . .

I navigated the bustling streets of Demacia, retracing my steps to the merchant stall I had seen the day before. The chemist's memories—the man I had absorbed—were full of grand plans, but only a few seemed truly practical. One, however, stood out: a healing gel.

The city moved like a well-oiled machine. Merchants shouted their prices, children darted between stalls, and soldiers patrolled with practiced ease. Every transaction was deliberate, forming the backbone of the local economy.

'Bronze, silver, gold. One hundred of each equals the next.' The hierarchy was clear. A common soldier earned 10 silver coins—enough to support a family. A knight, however, lived in an entirely different world, earning the equivalent of several months wages for a soldier.

When I reached the stall, I began gathering the ingredients I needed, placing them neatly on the counter.

"How much?" I asked, keeping my voice steady, uninterested in pleasantries.

The merchant's eyes narrowed, scanning me with a mix of amusement and doubt.

"Can you even pay for that, kid?" he sneered, his tone dripping with cynicism.

'Just name the damn price.' My jaw tightened, but I held back the urge to lash out.

I forced a polite smile. "Yes, I can."

I slipped a gold coin from my pocket, holding it just long enough for him to see. Not long enough to attract unwanted attention. The coin glinted in the sunlight—one side adorned with a winged sword, the symbol of Demacia, and the other bearing the king's face.

"Got change?"

The shift in the merchant's demeanor was immediate. His eyes widened, a flicker of realization sparking behind them. Suddenly, he was all smiles and deference.

"Oh! My apologies, young master! I didn't recognize your nobility. Here's your change, with a special discount. Please accept my apologies." He handed me a pouch of silver coins, bowing slightly as he spoke.

"Yes, yes. Forgiven." I waved him off, grabbing the supplies and turning away.

As I walked, irritation simmered beneath the surface.

'I'm tired of this.' The constant underestimation, the lack of respect. This body—small, weak—was a nuisance.

'I need to grow up. Soon.'

. . .

. . .

Three Months Later

The library had become a sanctuary. A place where silence reigned, broken only by the rustle of pages and the distant footsteps of scholars.

I spent every moment I could here, poring over books on magic. But with each visit, frustration gnawed at me. The texts were shallow, barely scratching the surface. Knowledge diluted to the point of irrelevance. Compared to my mother's collection, the difference was staggering.

'These books are pathetic,' I thought, dragging a hand through my hair. 'A waste of ink and paper.' The real knowledge was hidden—locked away behind layers of control and secrecy.

A shift in the air pulled me from my thoughts. A heavy presence loomed nearby.

A Mageseeker.

They always had a knack for appearing where they weren't wanted, their eyes brimming with suspicion, as if they could smell defiance. This one approached slowly, his gaze boring into me.

"What brings you here again, boy? Why such an obsession with magic?" His voice was cold, edged with judgment.

I met his stare, unfazed. 'Always the same.' Their questions, their assumptions—they never changed.

"Aren't mages our enemies?" I asked, tilting my head slightly, as if the answer should be obvious.

Feigning innocence, I adopted a thoughtful tone, my voice steady, logical.

"How can we fight something we don't understand?" I continued, folding my hands on the book before me. "Isn't that the whole point of research? People like you gather knowledge to protect us. If we're ignorant, how can we defend ourselves?"

His expression faltered, the gears in his mind visibly grinding to keep up. The hesitation was brief but telling.

He clicked his tongue, a hollow attempt to maintain authority. "Do what you want. But know this—I'm watching you." With a final, lingering glare, he turned and walked away, posture stiff with the need to preserve dignity.

'All the same. Blind and predictable.'

I sighed, returning my attention to the book in my hands. The pages blurred as a thought struck me.

Xin Zhao. My mentor. The king's favor.

'Accessing restricted books should be easy.'

"Why didn't I think of this before?" I muttered, exasperation coloring my voice. I shot a glare at the useless pile of texts on the table.

"They should arrive soon."

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